Page 2 of When the Viscount Seduces
Gwen exhaled with relief, glad her near collision was with someone she knew. The viscount, broad shouldered with gloriously blond hair and a dazzling smile, was a good friend of her brother’s. She’d spent time with Somerton in Weston, where she and her mother—and her brother this past year—whiled away the month of August with friends near the sea. Somerton and her brother, along with others, spent a great deal of their time at the Grove, an estate owned by the Duke of Henlow. His two children, the Earl of Shefford and Lady Minerva, stayed there in August. Min was a dear friend of Gwen’s. Indeed, she was one of the friends who had not yet arrived this evening.
“My apologies, my lord,” Gwen said, dipping a brief curtsey. Though her grandfather was a viscount, she was not a member of the peerage herself.
“You needn’t use such formality with me,” Somerton said with a wave of his gloved hand. “No curtseying permitted.” He winked at her, his roguishness on full display.
A year and a half ago, Gwen and her friends had drafted “rogue rules,” a guide for steering clear of rakish gentlemenand their scandalous behavior. It had been the result of one of them falling prey to an especially horrid scoundrel. The Earl of Banemore, once a member of that elite group of male friends who gathered at the Grove, had ruined Gwen’s friend Pandora Barclay. Pandora had expected a marriage proposal, but when she and Bane had been caught in a compromising position, he’d informed her that he was already betrothed to someone else. Someone he’d married not long after that awful occurrence.
The rogue rules had seemed vital to their own protection, and they generally adhered to them most strictly. For Gwen, she was especially careful with the first two: not to be alone with a rogue and not to flirt with one. Not that she’d had occasion to do either of those. The third was to never give a rogue a chance, which she meant to follow, but about which she was admittedly skeptical. Two of their set, Pandora’s sister Persephone and Tamsin, now the Duchess of Wellesbourne and the Lady Droxford, had married supposed rogues. Though, Tamsin’s husband was really only a rogue by association, and it didn’t seem fair to characterize him as one.
Somerton, however, was most definitely a rogue. He flirted with ease, and charm seemed to drip from his every word and gaze. Gwen wondered if giggling and swooning had originated with women who spent time with knaves such as him. She had no trouble believing it.
“It’s hard not to curtsey,” Gwen said. “We are at Almack’s, and I am trying to make a good impression.”
“Well, I’d say you’re doing a fine job.” He regarded her intently, his gaze sweeping her from the top of her headdress to the tip of her slipper peeking from the hem of her gown. “You look lovely. Peach is a very fetching color on you.”
“Thank you. That means a great deal coming from you.” Gwen had noticed that the viscount possessed a sharp sense for fashion. Of all the gentlemen who gathered in Weston everyAugust, he always seemed the most ready to saunter into a London ballroom.
Tonight, he was impeccably outfitted in a dark green coat, black breeches, a gold embroidered waistcoat, and impossibly glossy Hessians. He laughed at her comment. “Does it? I can’t imagine my opinion is all that vital, but I am glad to offer it, and you do look most ravishing.” His mouth twisted. “Forget I said that. Poor word choice for a friend’s sister. You look very pretty.”
Gwen smiled. “Thank you again, and I won’t tell Evan what you said. I’m going to get a glass of orgeat. Do you want to join me?”
He made a face. “That noxious brew? I’d rather inhale beetles.”
She blinked. “That’s a rather…specific alternative.”
Leaning close, he spoke in a low tone. “I inhaled a beetle once. I was about eight years old. The insect was on my horse, and as I was riding, it somehow came loose from the animal, caught the wind, and I sucked it directly into my mouth. It was absolutely revolting.”
Gwen’s mouth opened, but she snapped it closed as she considered the horror of a bug being sucked inside. “That’s perhaps the worst anecdote I’ve ever heard.”
“Which is why I’m telling you in confidence.” He arched his brows and gave her a mischievous smile.
It occurred to Gwen that he might actually be flirting, but could one really flirt about inhaling a beetle? Or with a friend’s cousin? Somerton was cousin to Gwen’s dear friend Tamsin.
“I’m bound for the ballroom,” Somerton said, straightening. “I won’t be staying much longer, but if you’d care to dance the next set, I’d be happy to partner you.”
Gwen stared at him. “Truly?” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is this a pity dance?”
He cocked his head to the side, and his hesitation answered her question.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m not above accepting that. As you can see, I’m rather desperate.”
“You don’t lookdesperateto me,” he said softly, with kindness in his eyes. “You look like a young lady who deserves to dance.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll search you out in a bit.” He gave her a swift, shallow bow and departed for the ballroom. Appreciating the viscount’s kindness, Gwen went to take a cup of orgeat from the table. She took a sip, and good heavens, sour was not a strong enough description. It was bitter. Like the heart of a woman scorned.
Pandora again came to mind, and Gwen instantly refused to compare her drink to one of her friends.
She returned to the ballroom, her mind on Pandora and whether she would ever recover from the scandal enough to reenter Society or find a husband. Though, Gwen was fairly certain she didn’t want the latter. So far, she didn’t particularly want the former, and Gwen couldn’t blame her.
Somehow, Gwen forgot how awful the orgeat tasted and took another drink as she walked into the ballroom. Her eyes squeezed shut as she forced herself to swallow the acrid liquid. In that barest moment, disaster struck. And it wasn’t anearcollision.
She walked straight into a gentleman, spilling her repellant beverage onto his immaculate blue coat and canary-yellow waistcoat. The remainder sloshed toward the floor, splashing his shiny Hessians and the lower part of her skirt.
“Watch where you’re going!” the gentleman declared, his gloved hand brushing at the droplets clinging to his front. “You may well have ruined this waistcoat. It’ssilk. And I just picked it up from Savile Row this very afternoon.”
Gwen cringed and waved her hands as if she meant to help him tidy himself, but stopped herself from doing so. What that did, however, was splash the remainder of the contents of her orgeat onto the man’s waistcoat. Horrified, she stared at the stain darkening the canary silk. “I’m so sorry.”
